Winter is behind us.
Luckily, it was mild. Hardly any snow fell, and it didn’t last long. There
wasn’t much in the way of ice, either. Why mention this? I’m considering
obstructions on the path. Spring inevitably sprang, and foliage went and
foliated.
How do these things
affect the housebound? They don’t. Until the housebound has to leave the house.
With a reduction of mobility, it’s important to keep remaining mobility on the go.
The less you walk…the less you walk. Visits to the memory clinic have been by
wheelchair for a good while now…
That clinic sits at the centre of a peculiar
tangle of unseen barriers. Too far to walk to. And by bus…too far to walk to,
given that the bus dumps you around the corner from the hospital entrance. The
walk to the clinic is just too damned far, defeating the convenience of going
by bus in the first place.
It’s easier to cut through the bumpy streets
by human-powered wheeled transport. Setting up the wheelchair ramps? Big fun.
So far, I’ve only had to contend with wind and rain. No wheelchair trips in
heavy snow and ice. Light powdery snow, at worst.
All obstacles behind
us, with winter swept away. Right? Wrong. Spring pushes plants from the edge of
the path into the path. Fronds, leaves, branches, stems, planty bits, and ant-bedecked
bobs. It’s all springing into action. Before, this wasn’t a problem.
By high summer, you wended your way down the
path. Step around the fronds. Slide past the flowers. Survive the ordeal and
reach the path’s end. Call it a victory.
The wheelchair ramp
fits the front door step. No plants there to provide obstruction. The back door
carries a legacy to it. That legacy is the memory of planting flowers. The
woman who planted them may occasionally remember putting those flowers in
there.
Every year, as the
seasons cycle through, bursts of memory fill the garden as flowers bloom from
month to month. The first stirring of spring in the dying chill of winter is
trumpeted by two flowers: the crocus and the snowdrop.
These plants
obstruct nothing.
But the other plants
stand in the way of the walking frame. And it’s the walker, the Zimmer, that
transports the infirm from door to path’s end. From there, it’s a bit of
assistance into a minibus and away the cared-for goes, on days out.
All through the winter,
we coped with the frame and the December-bare path, the January winds, and no
fucking ice. Day-trips went from one day a week to two days, and within a few
months we’ll likely see that frequency rise to three days out a week.
Time off at the weekends. With the new
routine of day-tripping to deal with, my worst worry was winter weather. We
sailed through the difficulties. And now, come spring, I found myself on my
knees with a machete, hacking my way through the jungle in search of a lost
temple.
There’s a strimmer,
now. What a danger to life and several limbs. I have to dress like an astronaut
to protect myself from this death-machine. I turned the plants into green soup,
and spent three days picking lettuce from my back teeth.
The situation worsens
as the year unfolds. I know what’s coming next. Attack of the plant monsters.
I’ll fend the beasts off with grit, determination, and my service revolver.
Remember this handy gardening rule. Don’t shoot until you see the greens of
their aphids.
No comments:
Post a Comment